In the Blink of an Eye (15 page)

“She meant to give it to you?”

Julia nods. “I've been using my grandmother's bureau since the drawers warped in mine. But Gram was into mothballs, and all my clothes end up smelling that way. Like an old lady in her Sunday best, Iris used to say.”

She smiles at the memory.

“Well, you can still have it, if you want,” Paine offers, poking around, his back to her. “In fact, if there's anything else you want, help yourself. I'm going to have to unload a lot of this stuff.”

“Won't Dulcie want to keep some mementos of her grandmother? And of Kristin? I'm pretty sure Iris still kept some of her dolls and things up in the attic, to give to Dulcie when she's older.”

“I'll have to go through it all,” Paine says with a sigh. He turns back to her. “Listen, I don't want to leave her alone up there for long. I just need to tell you about a few strange things that have happened with her.”

“What kind of strange things?”

“I'm not saying they mean anything, or that I believe anything,” he says, raising a hand as if to hold her at bay. “I just need to know how to deal with them, because if there is anything at all to your medium stuff—and I'm not anywhere near convinced there is—I don't want her to turn out all screwed up.”

Julia quells her resentment over his skepticism. He's entitled to his opinion. At least he came to her for help—and that's the important thing. Helping Dulcie.

“You think Dulcie is sensitive to paranormal experiences,” she says evenly. “Is that it?”

She expects some kind of disclaimer, or at the very least, a heaping dose of sarcasm, but he only nods, throwing up his hands helplessly.

“When she said there was someone in her room . . .” He shakes his head. “I would write it off as a dream, except that it's happened before.”

“When?”

“The night Iris died. The night Kristin died. Those are the most memorable experiences, and there's more to it—I won't go into detail now. But there have been other times, too. Once in a while, when she's alone, I've caught her talking to people who aren't there, Julia. Looking at people who aren't there. I want to believe it's just her imagination, but there's something so . . . odd about it. I mean, she's
blind,
Julia. She can't see what I see. How can she see what I can't?”

She hesitates, searching for the right words, words that won't further alienate him. “I can't explain that, Paine. How can I see what other people can't see? How can I hear what other people can't hear? I don't know. It's a gift. Maybe Dulcie has the gift.” She closes her mouth, not letting anything more, anything about Kristin, spill forth.

Instead, measuring her next words carefully, Julia says,

“I've felt a strong presence in this house, Paine. It could be that Dulcie feels it too.”

“A ghost?”

She nods. “If that's what you want to call it.”

“What do
you
call it?”

She studies him. He seems receptive, yet she knows his cynicism can't be far below the surface.

“I call it energy.” She takes a deep breath, explains, “It's the energy of someone who's passed.”

“Do you feel it now? Here?”

“No.”

“When? Where?”

“It comes and goes.” She doesn't want to alarm him. Doesn't want to tell him that the presence she's felt in this house is troubled.

He's silent for a few moments.

At last he asks, “Can it be Kristin? Can she be haunting this place? Or . . . haunting Dulcie?”

Haunting.
Another folklorish term she prefers not to use.

She lets it go by, saying only, “I don't know, Paine. It might be Kristin. I don't sense that it is. But the few times I've felt it have been so rushed—whoever was here was gone before I could tell more.”

He just looks at her, his eyes burning into hers. “I won't lie to you. A big part of me thinks this is just a bunch of bullshit. I've never believed in any of it. When you're dead, you're dead—that's what I think. And when Iris came to visit, she knew enough not to raise the topic. But . . . I'm worried about Dulcie, ,and I don't know what's going on with her. I don't want her to be . . .” He trails off.

“She doesn't seem frightened.” Julia runs her fingertips along the oak dresser's carved scrollwork, brushing away the dust and shreds of cobwebs.

“She isn't frightened. But . . .” Paine exhales heavily. “Look, I sure as hell don't want to stay here. I don't even want to be here a second longer than I have to. The sooner I clean this place out and get back home, the better. But it's not going to happen overnight. And I don't have anyone else to ask . . .”

Julia waits, standing still, her fingertips resting on the old wooden dresser. She knows what he's going to say. And she knows how she'll respond.

“Can you sort of spend some time here, Julia? With her? Just in case she'll open up to you about . . . anything that's happening?”

Julia thinks about the season that's just beginning. This time of year is insanely busy. She needs to work. And her roof is shot. Everything at home is shot. There are hundreds of household tasks she could be doing in what little free time she has.

Then there's Andy. Who knows where that's leading?

“I know you're busy, and you have a life,” Paine says, and she realizes that he's watching her. Waiting for an answer. “I wouldn't ask if I thought there was somewhere else I could turn. But there's stuff I have to get done around here, and it would be nice to have someone to keep her company once in a while. She needs more than me. Not just now, but all the time. Back home we have her sitter. Here, there's just me. She really likes you, Julia.”

“I know. I feel the same way about her. She's very sweet.”

She pictures Dulcie's little-girl face. It melds in her mind with Kristin's little-girl face, the Kristin she had known so long ago, and loved.

Kristin, who saw something in this house and never got over it.

Kristin, who came back here only once . . . and died.

A stab of fear—fear for Dulcie—takes hold in Julia.

“It's fine. I'll help you,” she tells Paine decisively, just as she knew she would. “When I'm not busy working, I'll try to spend some time with her. I'll try to see what's going on with her.”

“Good. Thank you so much, Julia. I don't know what to do for you in return—except give you that dresser. And anything else you want. Like I told you—”

“I know. You're going to unload it,” she says flatly

“Well, what else can I do? Cart it all the way across the country?”

“What about the house?”

“I'm going to sell it as soon as possible. Although who in their right mind would want to buy this place is beyond me.”

“
H
ELLO?”
R
UPERT CALLS
through the screen door for the third time. He knocks yet again, certain there's somebody home. The red rental car is parked at the curb.

There is no reply.

Maybe they're out walking, exploring the village. Or down at the beach, now that the warm sun has burnt away the clouds.

Hell. Rupert needs to talk to the man now. He's waited long enough.

But what's he supposed to do? Comb the streets of Lily Dale, looking for Paine Landry and his daughter?

Damn it.

He should have come earlier.

But he couldn't.

Before the endless wait at the pharmacy for refills on all the usual drugs, including morphine, there was the doctor's appointment . . .

He shuts that out, not wanting to think about the somber expression in Dr. Klauber's eyes as he examined Nan, nor the pity in his receptionist's kindly tone when Rupert told her they wouldn't be needing to schedule another appointment this time.

Dr. Klauber was ordering an oxygen tank for Nan's room at home. He said there was no need to bring her back to the office. The fifteen-minute drive to Dunkirk was too hard on her now.

“But then . . . when will I see you again?” Nan asked Dr. Klauber in her halting, labored voice.

Dr. Klauber didn't answer her.

Rupert supposes he should resent the doctor for that—for the way he looked past Nan, addressing only Rupert.

But he doesn't resent Dr. Klauber. He doesn't want anything spelled out for him, and certainly not for Nan.

Dr. Klauber tactfully mentioned that Rupert could bring her to the hospital if he'd like—that she might be most comfortable there, and that Dr. Klauber would then be able to see her when he made his rounds.

Rupert saw the expression in Nan's weary eyes when she heard that. He quickly assured the doctor that she would be perfectly comfortable at home.

And she will . . .

In
this
home, at Ten Summer Street

Rupert raises his hand to knock again, frustrated, knowing it will be futile, but—

And then he sees her, there, through the screen. Framed in the familiar doorway at the end of the hall leading to the kitchen.

For a moment years drop away and he's certain that it's Katherine standing there. His beloved little towheaded daughter.

He half expects to hear her giggling voice greeting him, to see Nan coming out of the kitchen behind her . . .

But it's all wrong.

The little girl's eyes are as blue as Katherine's were, but hers are oddly empty and unfocused.

Her hair is too yellow, too long, too loose.

Her clothes are too modern.

Nan always had Katherine in dresses, or full skirts and blouses, and short socks with lace edging, and white or black little-girl shoes with straps . . .

This isn't Katherine.

This isn't his house.

Katherine isn't here, and Nan isn't here.

“Who's there?” the little girl asks, standing absolutely still in the doorway, her hands outstretched to clutch the frame, her sightless eyes tilted in his direction.

Rupert realizes that she knows he's here; she must have heard his knock and his voice. She senses him now, though she can't see him.

Where the hell is her father?

Has he left her alone?

What kind of parent would do that?

Doesn't he realize the world is a treacherous place?

Rupert studies the child for a long moment.

He's about to call out to reassure her when she does something strange. Something that sends a chill down his spine.

Her head snaps suddenly to the left, toward the base of the stairs—as though she's heard something, or glimpsed movement from the corner of her eye.

But she can't see.

And there is nothing to hear, or the sound would have reached Rupert's ears, too.

“Are you the person who was in my room last night?” she asks abruptly, still facing the empty stairway.

Silence.

Rupert holds his breath, watching.

“Well, why did you take my book? Where did you put it?”

Dread steals over Rupert as he watches the bizarre one-sided exchange.

“It isn't funny,” the child says. “Stop laughing. Stop it. I'm going to tell my daddy about you.”

The little girl's expression changes then. Even from yards away, with these old eyes, in the dim light of the hall, Rupert can see the flicker of fear in her vacant blue eyes.

“Why not?” the little girl asks the invisible visitor. “Who are you? Are you my mom?”

Rupert holds his breath, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.

“Wait, come back!” the little girl cries out suddenly, letting go of the door frame and stepping forward. Her hands flail in front of her as she feels for something to guide her way. There is nothing.

She takes another step forward, feeling blindly, fumbling, stranded helplessly in the middle of an unfamiliar room.

Again, she calls, “Come back!”

Rupert backs away silently, descending the porch steps without a sound, his heart racing madly as he hurriedly strides away.

“
G
EEZ, WHAT'S UP
with him?” Kent mutters to Miranda as the old man brushes by them, hurrying off down Summer Street and disappearing around the corner onto Cleveland Avenue.

“Who knows? Maybe he saw a ghost”

Kent chuckles. “Then we're in luck. Did you notice where he was coming from?”

“Of course. Should we check it out now, or wait until later?” Miranda is clutching a white piece of paper in her hand, repeatedly rolling it into a tube between her palms and unrolling it again.

“Will you quit doing that?” Kent snatches it from her. “It's getting all wrinkled. We didn't bring that many copies with us.”

“We brought plenty. And if we get low, we can always photocopy it,” Miranda points out.

“Yeah, at a nickel a copy. That's a waste of money.”

Miranda sighs, thinking it's probably going to be a long summer. The trip with Kent seemed like such a good idea when they were back in Boston, and she was nursing her broken heart, desperate to get out of town. Now she wonders if she might not have been better off doing a weekend beachfront rental in Scituate with some of her friends instead of trekking across the country looking for ghosts. It would certainly be more relaxing.

She glances up at the house that so intrigued her yesterday. Again, she feels a prickle of interest. There's something here. She dismisses thoughts of lying on the beach and tells Kent, “Let's knock and see if somebody's home. There's a car parked out front and it looks like the inside door is open.”

“Sounds good.” He carefully tucks the sheet of paper into his shoulder bag and they pick up their pace.

As they near the house, Miranda spots movement near the lilac tree beyond the porch. A man and a woman are emerging from a cellar stairway beside the foundation. The man she recognizes from yesterday—the one who drove up in the red car with the little girl.